


Become Of Me

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:02:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney calls it his win/win situation. John just smirks, pleased that he's stopped the frantic hours of recalibrating and researching and rechecking that Rodney refused to ever call brooding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Become Of Me

Sometimes, Rodney is waiting impatiently for John to finish up his midnight conversations with Lorne—often the only time either of them can actually discuss the things that need to be discussed, instead of handling one mini-nightmare after the other—arms crossed and glaring until Lorne starts doing his shrinking flower impression. He used to glare right back at Rodney, but that was easily trained out of him after Rodney finally _noticed_ the glaring and got mad.

John's still trying not to find that particularly hot, but it is. Oh god, it is, because now Lorne gets shame-faced and a lot nervous about _McKay_ , downright respectful when they interact, and sure they're actually approaching a territory of friendliness now, but still, it's pretty clear who dictates the rhythms of that particular interaction and it's never, ever Lorne.

Rodney doesn't wait longer than ten or fifteen minutes. He's too impatient, or so he claims, but lately Lorne's starting to give John looks that make John's chest feel tight, his throat closing up because there's affection underneath all that worry and both are things he doesn't know how to deal with. So he ignores it, the same way he ignores Rodney, who watches him with sky-blue eyes, bigger than anything John's known and laser-focused on him, just him, him alone.

So it's barely 0020 when Lorne finally departs, depositing John next to Rodney with a wink that isn't really lascivious. And Rodney waves him off saying, "Of course, of course, good night, Major," like he cares what Lorne thinks anyway, already winding an arm around John's waist to drag him back to his quarters.

Their quarters, but that's not what the manifest says.

Once he's home, Rodney strips John down and spreads him out, ordering him not to move because they're both too tired for anything elaborate. John does, bemused, mind still buzzing with things Rodney sh-sh-shhhs whenever he talks about them off-hours, widening his legs because Rodney's hands are big and heavy and they find all the best spots as they work down over his shoulders to his ass, holding him open while Rodney hums and murmurs, damned near purring like the cat John knows the other man misses as he uses his tongue in ways nobody else is ever gonna feel beside John, not fucking _ever_. It breaks him down and shatters him apart, forcing him loose and relaxed and open, cock so hard he's leaking wet all over the bed, can't stop, can't think, just begging Rodney to _please, please, c'mon, Rodney, please just—please!_

Rodney chuckles, he always does, and slides in without any kind of burn at all, and John groans, coming hard, turning even more lax, more open, while Rodney fucks him until they're both hard again, both coming again, and if Rodney forgets—only twice, and once because John distracted him—they'll fall asleep like that, Rodney thick and solid inside of him, his weight pressing John's blood more deeply through his body, air more precious inside his lungs.

It's warm like that.

But this time Rodney remembers, carefully pulling out and patting John's flank, rolling him over until Rodney can re-drape himself, just as heavy, just as warm, only now with the added benefit of John breathing easily, and both their minds are happily blank as they finally fall asleep.

* * *

That happens a few times a week. More, when it gets bad.

* * *

Other times John waits in the labs, timing it so that Rodney doesn't ruin whatever he's working on. John respects what Rodney does, really respects in ways he doesn't think Rodney understands, so he learns the patterns, the pauses and he flows in between the silence of one experiment being turned into the next, hands on Rodney's shoulders, thumb rubbing against the tendon that's always sore, always tight, trying to circle it loose.

"Just a little longer," Rodney says.

"No," John counters and if they're alone, he'll kiss opposite where he's touching. If they aren't, he waits still and frozen and _commanding_ on a level that's pure instinct, pure animal force, because a few seconds of that and the lab is ringing it's so empty. It never works on Rodney, but he enjoys it and that's usually enough for John to get him upright, get him walking, get him to talk to John without a wall of computer screens and equipment in the way.

Rodney is rarely quiet, but John doesn't mind. He loves the rise and fall of Rodney's voice, dreams about it when they're apart, shivering as the ghostly words dance over each part of him, soothing or tightening depending on what John wants. He encourages Rodney to talk, to distract him, yes, but also to bleed away the tension of days that are long and hard, fraught with more than the coddled scientists back on Earth, Nevada or Colorado, doesn't matter, can ever truly contemplate. He's seen the way Carter's eyes widen, face immediately blanking to nothing, when she checks in with the scientists, reads their reports and sees how they live. She doesn't need to say that it's never like that for her, not _all the time_ , not without a crisis above and beyond.

She doesn't need to say it because everybody already knows it.

So Rodney talks, voice growing hoarse and slow, a toy gradually unwinding, as he's steered to the bathroom, cleaned up and cooled down, before stripped and tumbled onto the bed. John likes it when he can dig his fingers into muscles so tight they can't still be human, loves when he finds the right chords to make Rodney unlock, go limp, music burbling out before they turn into snores, into trust John knows is harder won than anyone else but Rodney's exes would ever believe.

That's for another night, though, because Rodney has the faintest traces of uppers still left in his system and used to them as he might be, it still wrecks havoc on his mind and body. So John angles Rodney onto his back, kneeling between legs he has to shove out of his way, sucking until Rodney says, "Oh, god, yeah, John, suck it, suck it," which is where the road diverges. There are more than two paths, a hundred, a thousand paths, but John has _ideas_ so he puts his weight on his hands, kissing Rodney's mouth even as he rearranges his lower half as smoothly as only practice can grant, weight shifting back like water over a balance, allowing John to hold and position and slide himself down, sitting with all of Rodney inside him so that they both make noise, harsh pants and low, aching moans.

"Hands," John will say and sometimes it means Rodney should lift them, hold them up for John to grasp and balance against. Tonight it means Rodney cups those big, nimble hands around John's hips, fingers marking territory against John's ass as John moves—they move—rising and falling like a bird's timed wing-beats, gliding on currents with languid pleasure before he starts climbing and climbing, faster still until both of them are dotted with sweat and eagerness, Rodney whispering, "God, you're so hot, faster, Jesus, yeah, ride me hard, put me away wet, wanna see you come, ride me, fucking, _ride,"_ varied and repetitious until John loses the meaning behind them except _yes_ and _mine_ and _dammit, come first, I want to feel you come first,_ so that when John goes tense and gasps, rigid with lights blooming behind his eyes, Rodney croaks out a happy groan and shoves up hard into punishing tightness.

He's usually asleep by the time John comes back, zonked out cold and snoring. John lifts himself free and cleans up, arms and legs shaky, before collapsing onto Rodney and sleeping hard enough that he never feels it when they switch and Rodney spoons up warm and tight behind him, murmuring things neither of them can bear when conscious.

* * *

Bets and rumors claim this happens most often. It doesn't. But it is what John loves best.

* * *

Right before important simulations or experiments, the kind that scientists are _supposed_ to preform, preventative, exploratory and not because if not there will be blood on their hands, Rodney calls, sometimes, brings John down to wherever he is, pushing him to his knees and into his mouth, taking what John bemusedly gives. Rodney doesn't like to come from that, just wants the edge, the tremor that isn't nerves but deeper, more primal, running through him when he presses _start._

If Rodney's successful then he'll go on hands and knees that night, rocking into John's heavy, teeth-jarring thrusts.

If he fails—really fails, without any 'interesting' results—then it's John who lays flat on the bed, burn rougeing up and down his body as Rodney fucks his problems away.

Rodney calls it his win/win situation. John just smirks, pleased that he's stopped the frantic hours of recalibrating and researching and rechecking that Rodney refused to ever call _brooding._

* * *

When John is hot and sweaty and _hungry_ , aching with need beyond the burn in his shoulders and the twist in his stomach, Rodney makes sure he's loud and protesting, making John feel the good guy as he's dragged away, except when it's bad, when it's _really_ bad, and Rodney is quiet and calm, almost distant as he lets himself be pushed into a wall, his hands cupping John's balls even before he starts to suck, trusting his heat and nearness to work the way no hours spent in useless, painful sparring ever can. Rodney sucks him slow, usually, sometimes pulling back to jerk John off, face flushed and dripping just so he can settle back in, draw it out with careful touches to whatever Rodney can reach—thighs and stomach and chest, nipples turning pink with scratches down his ribs—leaving marker-stains like brands as John's body settles enough to pour all of it down Rodney's throat.

* * *

Rodney never once complains about aching knees. Not unless Teyla's whacked them particularly hard, and then he shows off the bruise for everyone to see.

* * *

Some missions end with Rodney crowding John into one of the rooms they've plotted out, yanking off his pants and shoving inside with only a cursory attempt at prep, fucking brutally hard and fast, Rodney forcing himself to keep going after, thrusting the softening head of his cock right where it does John the most good until he too shouts himself calm.

* * *

After a while, no one asks where people vanish before ending up in the infirmary. So long as they _do_ end up there.

It’s not like John and Rodney are the only culprits.

* * *

There are various birthday traditions that spring up over the years. 

Rodney is granted full-access to whatever project he's most interested in, currently, and the party rages far into the night. John always takes him away early and they hide in their room, undisturbed until tomorrow noon-time. Some years, John comes out walking funny despite his brilliant smile. Sometimes Rodney does not sit for several days. It varies.

John goes flying, quietly slipping away to hidden flight-plans, no one beyond senior staff the wiser. Rodney is with him, 'meetings' that involve John in his pilot's chair, trying not to drool or crash as Rodney does everything he can possibly come up with—and oh, he regrets imposing that challenge on one Rodney McKay, regrets it so much his body is perfectly sore and his dick refuses to get hard for days afterward—without moving John from his preferred position.

They get most of the next day's morning after that, too. Rodney claims it's so he can remove the sand out of his ass; John loves to surf on his birthday.

* * *

It's not unusual for days to go by where Doctor McKay and Colonel Sheppard never see each other. Too many lunch meetings or problems, too many people clamoring for their attention.

It's just as usual for one to barge into the other's work place, effectively kidnap them and vanish for an hour or two.

No one comments, either way.

* * *

Rodney says, "God, you're such a _cocksucker_ , how can nobody know you love this so much, swallow it, please, God, I want to feel you swallow, over my cock, like that, I can feel it in my _hands,_ yeah, yeah, just like that, you _cocksucker."_

John says, "Fuck, you're such a bitch sometimes, McKay, I'm gonna make you scream from this, your ass red and burning from me, come on, take it, just _take it."_

* * *

Rodney says, "I, um, made this model. Of something. You should probably come see it, when you have the chance. Or—or I could bring it by? It's small, and maybe it's too small, but I didn't want to make it bigger and yes, didn't I just say it's a model? No, I'm not telling you of what, it's. It's a surprise. That I think you might like?"

And sometimes he says, "Christ, John, could you unplug the sink at least once before I die? Just once?"

* * *

John says, "I made dinner. Pasta. And I got that weird Frisian wine you like. It might suck. I wish we could just order a pizza."

And sometimes he says, "No, I am not washing your god damned socks, but I will _burn them_ if you don't."

* * *

Most missions begin with a look and—rarely—a touch that they hope quite desperately no one will ever call them on. Rodney dubs it his _don't you dare die_ glare. John calls it _don't fuck up this time, I'm tired of rescuing you_ , mostly because when he says it Rodney gets huffy and defensive, rubbing his hair upright like a hedgehog searching for its built-in defense, and they can bicker about how many times each one has saved the other for hours, effectively calming the most frazzled nerves because by now, everyone's heard it at least four times and claims it's funnier the fifth and sixth.

* * *

The touches are always soft:

A glide of Rodney's thumb over John's stubble-framed lip. John carefully resettling Rodney's vest, equipment, anything that allows him to rediscover powerful muscles and the unending, eternal passion that keeps Rodney going where the bravest falter and fall. A kiss that is more air than lip, more presence than touch, because they don't have to be next to each other to give it, can be clear across rooms.

But always, always before the 'gate, the 'jumper, the terrible, wonderful things they do, there is a moment where blue meets hazel and everything will be all right.


End file.
